Echoes of Faith: The Pony In The Barn| Flash Fiction

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Discover the inspiring story of a struggling single father and his daughter who find hope, love, and unexpected miracles in a chestnut-colored pony named Snowflake. A beautiful tale of family, faith, and the healing power of companionship. Read the full story below »

 The wind howled outside Dale Rose’s modest farmhouse, rattling the old windows and piling snow high against the barn. Inside, the crackling fireplace was the only comfort against the storm. Dale sat at the kitchen table, staring at the stack of overdue bills that seemed to grow as quickly as the snow outside. The weight of providing for his seven-year-old daughter, Charlotte, pressed on him like the relentless storm battering the walls.

“Daddy?” Charlotte’s small voice broke the silence. She stood in the doorway, clutching her worn teddy bear.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Dale asked, trying to soften his weary tone.

“I heard something outside. Like a whimper.” Her big blue eyes, so much like her late mother’s, were wide with concern.

Dale frowned. “It’s probably just the wind. This storm is fierce tonight.”

Charlotte hesitated. “But, Daddy, it sounded like it was coming from the barn. Can we check?”

Dale sighed, glancing at the clock. It was nearly midnight, and the storm showed no signs of letting up. But Charlotte’s pleading look was impossible to ignore.

“All right, let’s go. But bundle up.”

Charlotte scampered to grab her coat, hat, and boots. Dale grabbed a flashlight and a lantern, then led the way through the swirling snow to the barn. The icy wind stung his face as he pulled the barn door open against the weight of the drifts.

Inside, the barn was dim and quiet, save for the faint sound of something breathing heavily. Dale swept the flashlight beam across the hay-strewn floor and froze. Lying in the corner was a small, chestnut-colored pony, its sides heaving with labored breaths. One of its legs was bent at an odd angle, and its coat was caked with snow and ice.

“Oh no,” Charlotte whispered, rushing forward. “Daddy, it’s hurt!”

Dale crouched beside the pony, carefully examining it. “Looks like it got caught in the storm and found shelter here,” he murmured. “That leg doesn’t look good.”

“Can we help it?” Charlotte asked, her voice trembling.

Dale hesitated. Taking care of an injured animal would be expensive, and they were barely scraping by as it was. But as he looked at Charlotte’s hopeful face, he couldn’t bring himself to say no.

“We’ll do what we can,” he said. “But it’s going to take some work, and we’ll need to call the vet in the morning.”

Charlotte nodded eagerly. “I’ll help! I’ll take care of it, Daddy.”

They spent the next hour settling the pony into a warm stall, wrapping it in blankets, and giving it water. Charlotte named the pony “Snowflake” because of its arrival during the storm. By the time they returned to the house, both of them were exhausted but determined.

Over the next few days, Snowflake’s presence brought a new energy to the Rose household. Charlotte spent every spare moment in the barn, feeding and talking to the pony, even reading it stories from her favorite picture books. Dale watched from a distance, his heart both heavy and light. Heavy with worry over the cost of Snowflake’s care, but lightened by the joy and purpose it seemed to bring to his daughter.

One afternoon, as Dale worked on patching a drafty window in the barn, Charlotte sat beside Snowflake, brushing its coat.

“Daddy,” she said suddenly, “do you think Snowflake came here for a reason?”

Dale glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

“Like maybe God sent her to us,” Charlotte said, her small hands moving gently over the pony’s mane. “To help us not feel so lonely.”

Dale paused. Since his wife’s passing two years ago, he’d struggled to believe in much of anything, let alone miracles. But Charlotte’s unwavering faith was hard to ignore.

“Maybe,” he said softly, not wanting to dampen her hope.

That evening, as Dale sat by the fire, Charlotte came to him with a book in hand. “Can we read this together?” she asked.

He smiled, setting aside his work. “Of course.”

The book was a collection of Bible stories, one of Charlotte’s favorites. She opened to the story of the Good Shepherd.

“The shepherd never gives up on his lost sheep,” Charlotte said when they finished. “Just like we didn’t give up on Snowflake.”

Dale nodded, a lump forming in his throat. Her simple faith and optimism were beginning to stir something in him, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

By the end of the week, Snowflake’s leg was healing, and its strength was returning. The vet had been surprised by the pony’s resilience and even more so by Charlotte’s dedication.

“You’ve got a remarkable little girl,” the vet had said to Dale. “Her love and care have made all the difference.”

One crisp morning, Dale and Charlotte stood in the barn, watching Snowflake take its first tentative steps without the splint.

“She’s getting better!” Charlotte exclaimed, clapping her hands.

Dale smiled. “She sure is. And so are we, I think.”

Charlotte looked up at him, her eyes shining. “Do you think God is happy?”

Dale crouched beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I think so, sweetheart. I think He’s proud of how much love you’ve shown Snowflake. And maybe,” he added, his voice thick with emotion, “He sent her here to remind us that even in the hardest times, there’s always room for hope.”

Charlotte threw her arms around him, and for the first time in years, Dale felt a glimmer of peace. Snowflake’s arrival had been unexpected, but it had brought healing in more ways than one.

The days turned into weeks, and Snowflake continued to mend under Charlotte’s devoted care. The once-limping pony now galloped through the fields with a newfound vitality, its coat gleaming in the sunlight. Dale watched from a distance, his heart swelling with pride at Charlotte’s unwavering determination and love.

One evening, as Dale and Charlotte sat at the kitchen table, a letter arrived in the mail. It was addressed to Charlotte, written in delicate script that neither of them recognized. Curiosity piqued, Charlotte tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter.

“It’s from Mrs. Murphy next door,” Charlotte exclaimed, her eyes widening with surprise. “She says she used to own Snowflake before the storm hit. She thought Snowflake was gone forever.”

Dale took the letter from Charlotte’s hands, scanning its contents. Inside was a  photograph of  Snowflake in a sunlit meadow. 

“Mrs. Murphy is asking if we’d be willing to give Snowflake a forever home,” Charlotte said, her voice tinged with excitement.

Dale looked at his daughter, then back at the letter. The weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders once more. Taking care of Snowflake had been a challenge, but also a blessing. The barn had felt emptier before the pony’s arrival, and now, Dale couldn’t imagine it without her.

“I think that sounds like a wonderful idea,” Dale finally said, smiling at Charlotte. “What do you think?”

Charlotte’s eyes sparkled with joy. “I want Snowflake to stay with us forever, Daddy.”

Dale nodded, feeling a sense of peace wash over him. Perhaps Snowflake had been sent to them for a reason—not just to heal the pony’s broken leg, but to mend their wounded hearts as well. As he looked out the window at the snow-covered fields, Dale felt a warmth spreading through him, a feeling of hope and renewal that he thought he had lost long ago.

And so, Snowflake became a permanent member of the Rose family. Mrs. Murphy visited often, bringing little treats for the pony. The barn became a haven of laughter and love, a sanctuary of healing and companionship.

As the days lengthened and winter gave way to spring, Dale watched Charlotte and Snowflake race through the fields together, their bond unbreakable. And in those moments, surrounded by the beauty of nature and the love of his daughter, Dale knew that miracles were real—and that sometimes, they came in the form of a small, chestnut-colored pony named Snowflake.

Echoes of Faith: The Unexpected Visitor| Flash Fiction

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The Unexpected Visitor

Cynical journalist Miles Darby expects little from a story on a soup kitchen—until quiet acts of kindness and unexpected connections begin to soften his heart. Through faith and compassion, he discovers that small moments can spark lasting change. Read the full story below »

Miles Darby had spent years building a career on skepticism. As a journalist for The Metro Chronicle, he was known for his sharp wit and unflinching commentary. Stories of political scandals and corporate greed were his bread and butter.

Compassion? He’d call it naivety. So, when his editor handed him an assignment to cover a local soup kitchen, Miles thought it was some kind of joke.

“Seriously? A human-interest story?” he scoffed, leaning back in his chair.

“Yes, Miles,” his editor replied, his tone curt. “After that hit piece you wrote about the mayor’s fundraiser, we’ve had enough complaints to last a lifetime. You’re on thin ice. Maybe this assignment will remind you how to connect with people. And let’s face it, your reputation could use some softening.”

Miles gritted his teeth. Being demoted to a fluff piece felt like a slap in the face. A man of his stature—a man with a penthouse apartment and a luxury car—shouldn’t be wasting time in places like soup kitchens. But orders were orders.

Reluctantly, Miles found himself on the steps of the Good Shepherd Soup Kitchen the next morning. The brick building was modest, with a hand-painted sign above the door that read, “Come as you are.” Inside, the hum of conversation and the clatter of dishes filled the air. The aroma of fresh bread and warm soup wafted out as a volunteer held the door open for him.

“Morning! Come in,” said the volunteer, a wiry man in his sixties with a kind smile. “I’m Tom.”

Miles nodded curtly, stepping inside. His eyes scanned the room, notepad in hand, ready to jot down clichés. But the scene before him gave him pause. Tables were crowded with people of all ages—mothers with children, elderly men clutching coffee cups, and teenagers with weary eyes. Volunteers moved through the room with practiced ease, serving meals and offering words of encouragement.

“Can I help you?” asked a woman in an apron. She appeared to be in her forties, with a no-nonsense demeanor and a compassionate gaze.

“Miles Darby, The Metro Chronicle,” he said, flashing his press badge. “I’m here to write about this place.”

“Oh, you’re the reporter. I’m Susan, the director here,” she said, shaking his hand. “Feel free to observe and ask questions. We’ve got nothing to hide.”

Miles nodded, stepping back to blend into the background. He watched as Susan crouched to speak with a young boy clutching a stuffed animal. She handed him a plate of food and ruffled his hair, her warmth palpable even from a distance. Something about the scene stirred an uncomfortable feeling in Miles, but he shook it off.

He approached a volunteer removing paper plates. “Why do you do this?” he asked, pen and paper poised.

The young man shrugged, smiling. “Why not? Helping people feels good. Besides, I used to be on the other side of this table.”

Miles arched an eyebrow. “You were homeless?”

“Yeah. Lost my job, my apartment. Good Shepherd helped me get back on my feet,” the man said, before hurrying off to serve another table.

As the hours passed, Miles moved through the room, collecting snippets of conversations and taking notes. He interviewed a single mother who came here to feed her kids, a retired teacher who volunteered to stay busy, and a teenager trying to turn his life around after a brush with the law. Each story chipped away at Miles’s cynicism, though he refused to admit it.

Then he met David.

David was stacking chairs near the back of the room, his tailored coat—now faded and worn—hinting at a more prosperous past. His movements were calm and deliberate, and his smile genuine as he exchanged kind words with everyone around him. Intrigued, Miles approached.

“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” Miles said, holding up his notepad.

David looked up, wiping his hands on a rag. “Sure. Name’s David.”

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Miles began. “You seem… different from some of the other volunteers.”

David chuckled, gesturing for Miles to follow him as he continued his work. “I wasn’t always here, you know. I used to be a hedge fund manager. Made millions. But a bad investment wiped me out. I lost the house, the car—everything.”

“And now you’re here,” Miles said, trying to mask his incredulity. “How did that happen?”

David’s gaze softened. “When I lost everything, I thought my life was over. I spent months angry and bitter, blaming the world. Then one day, I wandered into this very soup kitchen, desperate for food and even more desperate for hope.” He paused, his voice thick with emotion. “I believe God led me here. And with Him, I realized there was more to life than just making money. Helping others here… it’s given me a purpose I never had, even when I was rich.”

Miles scribbled furiously, though his thoughts were more chaotic than his notes. “Doesn’t it bother you?” he asked finally. “That you lost everything?”

David smiled. “It did, at first. But then I realized something: true wealth isn’t in what you own. It’s in what you give. And here? I’ve discovered riches beyond anything I ever imagined.”

Miles stared at David, his mind racing. The man’s words echoed in his head, challenging the very core of everything he had believed in. He had spent his career tearing down the powerful, exposing their greed and corruption. But here was a man who had lost it all and found something more valuable in return.

As the afternoon turned to evening, Miles found himself immersed in the world of the soup kitchen in a way he never expected. He helped serve meals, washed dishes alongside the volunteers, and even shared a few laughs with some of the regulars. With each passing moment, his hardened shell began to crack, revealing a glimmer of something he hadn’t felt in years—empathy.

As the last of the dinner crowd dispersed and the volunteers began cleaning up, Miles lingered by the entrance, deep in thought. Susan approached him, her apron now stained with food but her eyes bright with kindness.

"Thank you for coming today, Miles. I pray your article draws more attention to Good Shepherd and that you found something here that resonated with you."

Miles hesitated, his usual sharp retort caught in his throat. Instead, he simply nodded. "It will—more than I expected."

Later that night, as he sat at his desk to write, Miles found the words flowing effortlessly. His usual biting prose felt out of place. Instead, he wrote:

"In a small brick building on the corner of Main Street, I discovered something unexpected: a reflection of humanity’s best qualities. At the Good Shepherd Soup Kitchen, people are not defined by their circumstances but by their capacity to give and receive grace. In their faces, I saw hope, resilience, and the power of compassion. And perhaps, for the first time, I began to question my own assumptions about what truly matters."

When he submitted the piece the next morning, his editor read it twice before looking up. “This is good, Miles,” he said, surprised. “Really good.”

Miles nodded, unsure how to respond. As he walked out of the office, he felt lighter somehow, as though the weight of his cynicism had begun to lift. Though unsure if he believed in miracles, something about the soup kitchen—and the people he met there—had undeniably transformed him.

For the first time in years, Miles Darby felt like more than a reporter. He felt like a man rediscovering his own humanity.

Obadiah Chronicles: The Arrival of Antioch(Flash Fiction, Episode 8)

 

The Arrival of Antioch

Night draped the outskirts of Baylor City in an unnatural stillness. The moon hung low, casting faint light over the weathered "Welcome to Baylor City" sign. A faint breeze stirred the air, carrying a chill that whispered danger.

From the shadows, a figure emerged, his dark cloak billowing like smoke. Antioch stepped forward, his glowing red eyes narrowing with disdain.

“So, this is where Obadiah hides,” he muttered, his voice a guttural growl.

Perched on his shoulder, Isis leaned forward, her golden eyes gleaming with predatory delight. “Quaint. And vulnerable,” she hissed, conjuring a flame that danced across her clawed fingers.

Antioch smirked, his long fingers tracing the faded lettering on the sign. The paint flaked away, frost creeping across the wood until it cracked and crumbled.

“It’s perfect,” he said, his tone laced with malice. “Let’s make him regret leaving the heavens.”

Isis tossed the flame toward the town’s faint glow. The flame extinguished midair, its sparks scattering into the wind. “Max has found the Chosen One,” she purred.

Antioch’s grin widened. “Good. But first, let’s sow a little fear. Let them feel us before they see us.”

The streetlights along the road flickered and dimmed, one by one, as a ripple of cold energy swept through the air. Antioch and Isis vanished, their dark laughter carried on the chilling breeze.

The following morning, the chatter of students filled the history classroom as they settled into their seats. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting slanted beams across desks cluttered with notebooks and textbooks.

Principal Cross clapped her hands, silencing the noise. “Everyone, please welcome our new history teacher, Mr. Lucas Elliott!”

A tall man with a confident, commanding presence stepped forward. His tailored suit emphasized his broad shoulders, and his piercing blue eyes scanned the students. For a brief moment, his gaze lingered on Laric, and something passed between them—an unspoken awareness that made Laric sit up straighter, his heartbeat quickening.

“Nice to meet you all,” Luk-el said, his tone warm but steady. “I look forward to getting to know each of you.”

Laric frowned, glancing at Allen. “Did you feel that?” he whispered.

Allen raised an eyebrow. “Feel what?”

“That... thing,” Laric said, struggling to put it into words. “When he looked at me.”

Allen laughed, nudging him. “Relax, Laric. He’s just a teacher. Not everyone’s got a secret.”

“Maybe,” Laric muttered, but he couldn’t shake the strange connection. It wasn’t a bad feeling—more like the recognition of something familiar yet unknown, like hearing a melody you’d forgotten but still somehow knew.

Later that afternoon, the school gymnasium was nearly empty, the faint thud of a basketball echoing against the walls. Alex, a wiry sophomore, practiced alone, his movements deliberate and precise. He leaped, releasing the ball. It swished through the net, satisfying but fleeting.

“Impressive,” said a voice from the shadows.

Startled, Alex turned to see a tall, dark-haired student leaning casually against the bleachers. His smile was friendly, but something in his eyes made Alex’s stomach tighten.

“Who are you?” Alex asked, gripping the basketball.

“Just a friend,” the boy said, stepping forward. “You’ve got talent. Real potential. People should notice you.”

Alex blinked. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” the boy said with a laugh. “But I know you. I know how hard you work. How overlooked you are. It’s not fair, is it?”

Alex hesitated, the boy’s words hitting too close to home. “What do you want?”

“To help you,” the boy said, his tone turning serious. “What if I told you there’s a way to show them all who you really are? To make them see your worth?”

Alex stepped back, wary. “I don’t even know you.”

The boy’s smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of impatience. His red eyes gleamed briefly before fading. “Think about it, Alex. Greatness is within your grasp... if you’re brave enough to take it.”

Before Alex could respond, the boy vanished into the shadows. The gym lights flickered before stabilizing, leaving Alex clutching the basketball and trembling.

The next morning, the school hallway buzzed with life. Lockers slammed shut, snippets of conversation bounced off the walls. Students gather in small groups, chatting and laughing, while others head to their next classes. Alex stands near a row of lockers, fumbling with his books.

He  hunched over his textbook, keeping his head low. He hoped to go unnoticed, blending into the background as he always did. But today, luck wasn’t on his side.

Brett and Jason, two football players with a penchant for bullying, shoved Alex against a row of lockers.

“Hey, nerd!” Brett sneered, snatching Alex’s book. “What’s this? Math homework? Trying to make us all look bad?”

“Give it back,” Alex muttered, reaching for the book.

Jason smirked, shoving Alex harder. “Why? You gonna cry about it?”

Before the situation escalated further, a sharp voice cut through the crowd. “That’s enough!”

Laric strode toward them, Allen trailing behind with his usual mischievous grin.

“Great,” Brett muttered. “The choir boy and his sidekick.”

“Say that again,” Allen snapped, balling his fists.

Laric raised a hand, his voice calm but firm. “We’re not here to fight. Leave him alone.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Whatever, man. We were just joking.”

The bullies sauntered off, but not before shoving Alex one last time.

“Jerks,” Allen muttered.

Laric crouched beside Alex, helping him gather his books. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Alex mumbled, avoiding Laric’s gaze.

“Sure you are,” Allen said, smirking.

“Is there a problem here?”

The trio turned to see Lucas Elliott, his blue eyes sharp and watchful.

“No problem, Mr. Elliott,” Laric said quickly.

Lucas nodded, but his gaze lingered on Alex. “My door’s always open,” he said softly before walking away.

Laric watched him go, his brow furrowing. “There’s something about him.”

Allen rolled his eyes. “Not this again.”

Dusk draped Baylor City’s park in soft shadows as Obadiah walked the winding path toward home. The distant laughter of children, the murmur of families, and the cheerful strumming of a street musician blended into a soothing symphony of life.

Then, everything stopped.

The park froze in an instant. Children hung mid-leap, their faces locked in joy. Joggers paused mid-stride, their breath suspended in the cool air. The musician’s hand hovered above his guitar strings, the final chord echoing faintly before fading into eerie silence.

Obadiah’s steps faltered. His senses sharpened as a familiar presence rippled through the air.

“Well, isn’t this charming?”

The voice came from behind him, smooth and mocking. Obadiah turned slowly to face Antioch. Cloaked in shadows, the demon’s form seemed to absorb the last traces of light. His red eyes burned faintly, twin embers of malice.

“Antioch,” Obadiah said, his tone calm but firm.

“You seem tense,” Antioch replied, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “Still playing the noble protector, I see. But let’s not waste time—surely, you knew this moment was coming.”

“What are you doing here?” Obadiah demanded, taking a step forward.

Antioch chuckled, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, just visiting. Exploring your quaint little sanctuary. Baylor City...” He gestured lazily at the frozen park around them. “A charming choice. But you can’t shield them all, Obadiah. Not forever.”

“I’ll protect them,” Obadiah said, his voice like steel.

“Brave words.” Antioch’s smile sharpened. “But you’re not alone, are you? Tell your pet, Luk-el, to stay out of my business. He’s meddling where he doesn’t belong.”

Obadiah’s jaw tightened. “Luk-el is more than a match for you.”

Antioch’s smirk faltered for a moment, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “Perhaps. But this isn’t about him... or you. This is about breaking your sanctuary, one soul at a time. And I’ve already chosen my first.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge, laced with cruel promise.

“You won’t win, Antioch,” Obadiah said, his voice unwavering.

Antioch’s grin returned, wider and darker. “Oh, Obadiah. You’ve always been so confident. Let’s see how long that lasts.”

With a wave of his hand, Antioch vanished. The park came alive again in an instant. Children’s laughter rang out once more, joggers resumed their stride, and the musician’s tune floated on the air as if nothing had happened.

Obadiah stood in the midst of it all, his thoughts churning. Luk-el. What are you doing here?

He exhaled slowly, his resolve hardening. The battle was only beginning.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Obadiah Chronicles: The Call of Shadows (Flash Fiction, Episode 7) Part 2

The Calls of Shadows: Part 2

The Harrington estate was alive with music and laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses echoing through the grand ballroom. Evelyn Harrington drifted through the crowd, her polite smile a thin veil over the heavy ache in her chest. Tonight’s fundraiser, planned months ago by her late husband Jonathan, was in full swing. Yet the weight of his absence dulled everything around her.

Everywhere she turned, whispers followed.

“Jonathan would have loved this,” one guest murmured.

“A shame about the scandal,” said another.

Her husband’s death, paired with the revelation that his prized artifact—the Psalms scroll—might be a forgery, had tarnished his reputation and left her drowning in debts. Their legacy was unraveling, and the pitying glances of the guests only deepened her humiliation.

The walls of the ballroom seemed to close in around her. She excused herself, slipping through a side door into the quiet sanctuary of the powder room.

Evelyn gripped the edge of the sink, staring at her reflection. Her pale face, lined with grief and exhaustion, stared back.

“Get it together,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

As she reached into her purse for a compact, the lights above the mirror flickered.

She froze, her breath hitching. The muffled music and chatter from the ballroom faded into an eerie silence. The air felt charged, as if a storm was building. She turned toward the mirror, watching in horror as the glass began to fog over—not with heat but with something unseen.

Letters appeared, traced by an invisible hand.

BRIAN

Her heart pounded. She stumbled back, her purse falling to the floor.

“Jonathan?” she whispered, barely able to force out the word.

The writing continued, slow and deliberate, until another word emerged beneath the name.

ARKLOW

Evelyn pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. The message was clear: Jonathan was reaching out to her from beyond, urging her to find someone named Brian.

The lights flickered once more, and the letters vanished as if they’d never been there. But Evelyn knew what she had seen.

Her husband’s voice whispered faintly in her mind: “Find him, Evelyn. Brian. Arklow.”

The halls of the Arklow Bible Museum were quiet as the last visitors departed for the day. Obadiah—stood in the Psalms exhibit, his hands clasped behind his back. The warm glow of the lights bathed the artifacts in a golden hue, but an uneasy tension lingered in the air.

Gabriel and Michael’s visit weighed heavily on him. Their warning about Jonathan Harrington’s death—and the prophecy that Evelyn would seek him out—had left him restless.

He gazed at the ancient manuscript in the display case, the golden light casting shadows over its worn surface. The Book of the Law, uncovered in Josiah's time, a reminder of a king who had reignited faith in a people who had nearly forgotten it. Jonathan Harrington, taken by a demon, he thought grimly. Antioch again. How far has his reach spread this time?

His reflection rippled faintly in the glass, a momentary distortion as if the weight of the past had brushed against the present. This scroll had been hidden for generations before its rediscovery transformed a kingdom. Now, another scroll, Jonathan’s scroll, had become the center of a mission to restore a family’s shattered legacy.

Obadiah straightened, the echoes of purpose stirring within him. The work of the faithful, past and present, carried on.

“Brian,” called Cole, breaking the silence. His hurried footsteps echoed as he approached, clipboard in hand.

Obadiah turned, his focus shifting from the scroll to his colleague.

“Mrs. Harrington is here,” Cole said, his tone low. “She asked for you specifically. She’s waiting in the lobby.”

Obadiah nodded, his thoughts racing. So it begins, he thought to himself.

Making his way to the lobby, Obadiah spotted Evelyn near a glass display case. She was a petite woman in her sixties, her silver hair neatly pinned back, but her eyes betrayed the turmoil she carried.

“Mrs. Harrington,” Obadiah greeted, his voice calm and soothing. “How can I help?”

Evelyn turned toward him, clutching her purse tightly. “Mr. Sessions... I—” She faltered, then took a deep breath. “My husband sent me to you.”

Obadiah tilted his head slightly. “Sent you to me?”

Tears welled in her eyes. “He’s gone, but... he’s not gone. I hear him in the house at night. I feel his presence. And at the fundraiser... he wrote your name on the mirror. He whispered to me: ‘Find him, Evelyn. Brian. Arklow.’ Why would he send me to you?”

Obadiah gestured toward a nearby bench. How do I explain the unimaginable? He knew he couldn’t tell her everything—not yet. “Let’s sit. Tell me everything.”

As Evelyn recounted her experience, Obadiah listened intently. She described Jonathan’s belief that the Psalms scroll would secure their legacy and how an appraiser had declared it a forgery.

“I don’t know what to do,” she finished, her voice breaking. “He trusted the dealer—a man named Victor Caldwell. But if it’s a fake...” Her tears flowed freely, her grief and fear overwhelming her.

Obadiah reached out, placing a steady hand over hers. “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” he assured her, though the weight of responsibility pressed heavily on him.

The air grew heavy, charged with a faint energy. Obadiah felt the ripple of a spirit’s presence. His eyes flicked to the corner of the room, where Jonathan’s ghostly form appeared, flickering and translucent.

Evelyn gasped, her gaze darting around. “Do you feel that?”

“Yes,” Obadiah said softly, his gaze fixed on Jonathan’s apparition. The spirit nodded toward him, his lips moving as if to say, “Help her.”

Obadiah turned back to Evelyn. “I’ll look into Victor Caldwell. I’ll call you once I have answers.”

The next morning, Obadiah arrived at Victor Caldwell’s office, an unassuming building tucked away on the outskirts of town. The shelves and display cases were filled with artifacts that exuded a false air of legitimacy.

“Mr. Caldwell,” Obadiah said as he entered, his tone calm but commanding.

Victor Caldwell, a wiry man with sharp eyes, looked up from his desk. His practiced smile faltered when he saw Obadiah’s expression. “Who’s asking?”

“Brian Sessions. Director of the Arklow Bible Museum.”

Victor leaned back, feigning nonchalance. “What can I do for you?”

“The Psalms scroll you sold to Jonathan Harrington,” Obadiah said, his voice steady. “It’s a forgery.”

Victor’s expression tightened. “That’s a serious accusation. Do you have proof?”

The lights flickered faintly, the room’s temperature warming subtly as divine energy rippled around Obadiah.

“Jonathan trusted you, and you betrayed him,” Obadiah said, his gaze piercing. “Where’s the real scroll?”

Victor paled, sweat beading on his forehead. “I don’t have it—I never had it.”

Obadiah stepped closer. “You’re lying.”

Victor slumped into his chair, trembling. “It’s in the back,” he finally admitted. “I kept it for leverage.”

Obadiah followed as Victor unlocked a cabinet, producing a worn leather case. Inside lay the authentic scroll, its energy unmistakable.

Later that evening, Obadiah returned the scroll to Evelyn, she clutched it to her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I can’t believe it... Jonathan was right all along.”

Obadiah stood a few feet away, his hands clasped. “He wanted to make things right—for you, and for his legacy.”

Evelyn turned to him, her voice trembling. “Why did he send me to you? Are you... an angel?”

Obadiah’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Your husband is at peace. He sent you to me because he trusted I could help. That’s all you need to know.”

Before she could reply, the air grew warm and light, and Jonathan’s ghostly form appeared beside her. 

She sobbed as Jonathan faded into the light, her trembling hands clutching the scroll as if it were a piece of him still with her. Obadiah’s gaze lingered on her briefly, his expression softening. “Take care, Mrs. Harrington,” he said quietly before turning toward the door.

Several weeks passed before Evelyn Harrington returned to the Arklow Bible Museum. Obadiah was reviewing notes in his office when Cole announced her arrival. She carried the scroll in her hands, wrapped in delicate cloth.

“I thought about what Jonathan would have wanted,” Evelyn said softly, her voice steady despite the emotion in her eyes. “This belongs here. It’s where he wanted it to be.”

Obadiah accepted the scroll with a solemn nod. “He’d be proud of you, Mrs. Harrington. You’ve honored his memory.”

Evelyn carefully signed the donation paperwork, her trembling hands now steady with a sense of closure. She glanced up at Obadiah with a faint but sincere smile. “Thank you, Mr. Sessions. For everything.”

Obadiah inclined his head. “It’s what Jonathan would have wanted. You’ve honored his memory.”

She nodded, clutching her purse, and after one last glance at the scroll, turned to leave. Her footsteps echoed softly as she made her way down the hall, the weight of grief lightened ever so slightly.

As the door closed behind her, a warmth lingered in the air. Obadiah glanced at the scroll now resting on his desk, its significance illuminated by the soft glow of the room.

“Thank you, Evelyn,” Jonathan’s voice seemed to whisper on a breeze only Obadiah could hear. “I’ll always love you.”

With a final glance at Obadiah, Jonathan’s form dissolved into light, leaving behind a profound stillness.

Obadiah stood in his office, the scroll resting on his desk. For a moment, the weight of this mission lifted, leaving him in quiet reverie. Another soul at peace. Another life set back on course.

Turning back to his notes, Obadiah’s thoughts lingered on what lay ahead. Somewhere, another mission waited—a call he would answer when the time came.

TO BE CONTINUED…